


A Pleasant Morning

by Minor_Coon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28949361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minor_Coon/pseuds/Minor_Coon
Summary: The spell was supposed to locate 'the demon Crowley.' This comfortable cottage in the South Downs wasn't quite what Sam and Dean were expecting.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 165





	A Pleasant Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of Good Omens crossovers lately, so I thought I'd throw in one of my own! Wrote this years ago and never got around to posting.

“You sure this is the place?” Dean said with a frown.

Sam double-checked the spell. “I'm sure. Um.”

They had expected another ostentatious mansion, or failing that, someplace appropriately dark and decadent. Instead, they were faced with a well-tended garden, sunny yellow walls, and a small sign above the doorway that read, “Home Is Where the Heart Is.”

There was no doorbell.

Dean shrugged and then rapped loudly on the door. They had barely readied their weapons when the door was flung open and a cheery voice greeted them.

“Why, hello! We don't get many strangers around here. Come in, come in.”

Bewildered, Dean and Sam allowed themselves to be ushered into the house by the pudgy, smiling man who had opened the door. He wore a thick tartan sweater that seemed hand-knit and a relentlessly amiable expression.

“We're here to see Crowley?” Sam tried. It came out like a question. 

“Oh yes”—the man bustled them into a cozy kitchen—“I'm afraid he's still having his lie-in”— began to take out cups—“Awful habit to fall into, sleep, but he does get ever so grumpy when I wake him”—lifting a boiling kettle from a spot on the stove that both Sam and Dean would have been prepared to swear was hitherto empty—“Grumpy for the whole day, mind, so on the whole I prefer to let him have his little indulgence.”

He set four steaming cups of tea down on the table and turned back to them with a smile. 

Dean stared. Sam stared.

The man raised a hand to his lips. “Oh dear, you are Americans, aren’t you? You do drink tea?”

He peered at them with sudden concern.

“We drink tea,” Sam said. He whispered out of the corner of his mouth, _What is going on here?_

Dean shrugged helplessly. He cast his gaze around the kitchen and landed on a kitchen towel adorned with a green snake. The snake appeared to be winking.

“Jesus Christ, it's a nice day,” Dean said, enunciating carefully. 

The man didn't flinch; if anything his smile increased a few watts in intensity. “That it is, that it is. Now it's very rude of Crowley to make you boys wait. I'll just tell him he has guests, shall I?” 

He disappeared behind the door frame.

Dean spun to face Sam. “Are you sure you said _demon_? You sure some random dude with the bad luck to be named Crowley doesn't live here?”

“I said 'the demon Crowley.' Those words, specifically.”

They were interrupted by the man's fluttering return. 

“Crowley says he wasn't expecting guests. May I have your names?”

“Sam and Dean,” Sam said automatically. Then he frowned. They never gave out their real names anymore, and certainly not to suspected demons. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean mouthing, ‘Sam and Dean, really?’

“Sam and Dean!” the man suddenly shouted up the stairs, making them both flinch.

“I don't know a Ssam or a Dean,” came the returning shout. The voice was peevish and a little sibilant. It was also intensely British. “Well, I have known Ssamss and Deanss, but not any who'd be bothering us here. What do they want?”

“Crowley was wondering what drew you hither!” chirped Tartan Sweater, as if they hadn’t heard the shout just the same as him. 

“It's about business,” Dean said, hedging.

“They say it's about business, dear,” the man shouted up the stairs. “I'm afraid Crowley's retired now,” he told them in a normal tone of voice.

There was a crash from above. A few seconds later a man with mussed-up black hair, a black silk robe that must have cost more than the cottage, and a silk sleeping mask still over his eyes slunk down the stairs. He was definitely _not_ the demon Crowley. For one thing, he had cheekbones.

“I'm retired,” he announced. And then, hopefully, “Do I smell tea?”

“I made the tea dear Anathema sent us.”

Silk Robe scowled. “Oh Heaven, not another one of her experimental blends.”

“We shouldn’t get stuck in our ways,” Tartan Sweater said, though his face was scrunched up and he didn’t seem to quite believe his own words. “I’m sure it will be, er, drinkable—”

“Toss it. Steep some Earl Gray. We’ll tell her it was scrumptious.”

“A lie?”

“A white lie, Angel.”

The two smiled at each other, Sam and Dean for the moment completely forgotten. 

Dean nudged Sam hard in the shoulder. His expression communicated quite eloquently that this was far too domestic for his comfort. Sam cleared his throat.

“I think we must have gotten the wrong address,” Sam said. “Sorry for interrupting your morning. Um. We’ll just be on our way.”

They had almost reached the door when Tartan Sweater’s voice stopped them in their tracks. 

“Nonsense,” he said. “You, my dear boy, have not been eating enough, and you”—he pointed an accusatory finger at Dean—“you, young man, eat too many fatty foods. Don't deny it, I can tell just be looking at you. Why don't you stay and have some breakfast? We have plenty.”

“He's implacable,” Silk Robe chimed in, his mouth curled up in amusement. “Best not to fight it.”

Somehow, Sam and Dean found themselves seated at the kitchen table. As Tartan Sweater cooked—“Did I really not mention my name? But how silly of me. It's Aziraphale, boys”—and prattled—“I used to own a bookstore, not that I sold much of anything, but of course I'm retired now”—the other man disappeared long enough to tame his hair, straighten his bathrobe, and acquire expensive-looking sunglasses. Which was a little odd, considering the complete absence of sun outside. Before Sam or Dean could make much of this, Aziraphale triumphantly set down his platters—eggs, hash, kippers, scones, copious amounts of butter, jam, and lemon curd. The experimental tea had been replaced with liquid that smelled brightly of bergamot. 

It was hard to speak with two kippers stuffed in his mouth, but Dean managed to whisper to Sam. “Real Crowley must have wards that mess with location spells. Bet he’s having a good laugh out there somewhere.”

Sam, who was enjoying a scone, nodded, but didn't manage to look too heartbroken about eating a piping hot breakfast instead of meeting a demon. 

Outside, some sun broke through the clouds. Dean reached for a third kipper.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale watched the boys leave.

“You realize,” Crowley said tetchily, “that this counts as a good deed.”

“Well I could hardly—” Aziraphale began.

“Don't give me that. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking in some celestial rejuvenation, either. But I've got it balanced, don't you worry. They'll get into a fight soon enough. A real bad one.”

“You snake!” Aziraphale said, though he sounded more fond than cross. “Really, two nice brothers like that.”

Crowley shrugged. “What? So they'll have a fight. Siblings always fight. It's not like it's the end of the world.”


End file.
